Numbers
by bananafangirl
Summary: Numbers are simple, easy. They make sense when the world is falling apart. So John counts. But it doesn't make anything less real, and he's still going back to Earth for the funeral of the one person he never thought he'd have to lose--his son.
1. Chapter 1

It's been 3 years 2 months and 18 days since he last visited a church. Before that it was 14 years 9 months and 6 days. Math is simple and factual and easy to his overwhelmed mind, doing conversions for time zones, factoring in leap years and adding up the days passed, here and home, is relieving and scientific.

He's in the doorway of a little local church, rain beating down on his back and plastering his wild hair to his skull. He isn't even sure what flavor of Christian this place is, not that it matters anymore. Whatever it is, it's still holy, isn't it? It's been 3 years 2 months and 16 days since his daughter died.

Shivers rack his body and he crosses his arms over his chest, staring up the aisle that stretches away forever before him, lined by pews holding a few scattered, praying figures. Math is easier than prayers. He amends the last solution, it's been 3 years 2 months 16 days and 3 hours since they found the body. She died in the afternoon.

His mouth hangs open as he pants slightly in a desperate attempt to compose himself, and he tastes salt that can't be blamed on ocean air.

He's known he was going to be a father for 18 years 6 months and 4 days. They were early babies, and he knelt in a church and prayed after they were delivered safe and sound after 19 hours of labor. Prayed they would remain that safe while at the same time thanking whatever higher being cared to listen for their kindness and his two happy, healthy, screaming babies. A little spark of belief had remained then.

He's been a father for 17 years 11 months and 24 days. The aisle in front of him is starting to blur in his vision. There's a migraine beginning behind his left eye as his mind races through numbers. 24 days and 9 hours. Morning babies.

4 more days. Just, God, please, 4 more days. Let them have that. Let him be a father for 18 years. Maybe 4 days doesn't make a difference, but there's something about that. A milestone. As if an 18th birthday, celebrated or not, will be a victory over the cruel forces that so easily tear his family apart. He doesn't believe it will make his boy a man; that happened a long time ago, forced to grow up too fast, for all that he acts like a petulant child confined to his hospital bed.

Somehow even the numbers have doubled back to emotion. Numbers are supposed to be cold and detached, facts, unchanging. That's what hurts. He can't change the numbers, he can't give them 1 more day, 1 more year, he can't give himself the time to say goodbye. There aren't any words for a goodbye as permanent as this anyway.

"4 more days." Are the first words to leave his mouth in 3 hours, but he can't take that one down to minutes and seconds. "Just let him--please. Please."

Whether it's the rain or the wind or the pain, something is driving him to his knees, and he doesn't resist anymore. Slumps against the door frame and slides down, head dropping into his hands, palms coated wet and warm with tears as soon as they touch his cheeks. "Please." His mouth moves in endless repetition, whispering over and over. Begging someone he doesn't have the slightest spark of belief in anymore. "Change the numbers."

He's been a father for 17 years 11 months 24 days and not quite 10 hours when his phone rings and the world ends. The news is harder this time than the first. Parents shouldn't live to see their children die, and this makes two he's buried.

Numbers are simple and factual, cold and detached and easy. Numbers don't change for anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

John knows how to count time in gunshots, the sound of fists smacking flesh, even the steady beep of heart monitors. Mostly, he knows how to count it in the thrum of Atlantis in the back of his mind, and it's odd to be without that when he doesn't have a gun in his hand or on his hip (though there's still one at the small of his back). He's forgotten how to count it in the turn of wheels, the passage of street signs, and the sound of the radio--which is playing a song he doesn't recognize, by a band he doesn't know.

He looks down at his hands, clasped around the steering wheel awkwardly, like they don't belong. They don't. The rental car lacks the sense of being _there_, of almost _listening_ that the 'Jumpers have, and it's unsettling until he realizes _why_ he's unsettled and has to laugh at himself. It's a car, of course it's nothing like a 'Jumper. His hands still don't relax around the steering wheel, not even when he's pulled up to the curb in front of a sprawling ranchhouse in the suburbs, the steady rumble of the engine turned off and the background noise of the radio gone. In fact, sitting there in front of the house his hands tighten into white-knuckled fists, so tight that they ache and the leather of the wheel creaks under his skin.

It's a plain enough house--nothing out of place in any upper middle-class suburban neighborhood across the USA, except perhaps the thick, tall bushes obscuring a corner of the yard. A yard which is slightly overgrown, but not to a state that would have the neighbors complaining. There is absolutely nothing about the pale yellow paint and shuttered windows that should unsettle him so deeply that it feels as if someone is gripping his innards and twisting, which is a wholly unpleasant feeling, and one that tempts him to put the car in gear and turn around, to go back to the airport and the safety of Cheyenne Mountain and beyond, where there is nothing comparable to what awaits him behind the screen door.

But John Sheppard is not a coward, at least not when it _matters_, and so he slowly pries his fingers from the wheel and slides out of the car. He leaves his bags in the trunk, not entirely sure that the welcome he will receive will be a pleasant one, or that he will be allowed to stay. He imagines many things that may await him behind the closed door, as he approaches up the well-worn concrete garden path. None of them are quite so startling as having to catch the elderly woman who bursts through the front door before he can even reach it, and awkwardly return her warm embrace.

"Jane," he says, the name sliding across his tongue like a long-lost friend, and that is what he holds in his arms.

"How's my favorite ex-son-in-law?" Jane asks warmly, her weathered hands coming up to cup his face. Blunt nails dig into his cheeks just a little too hard, warning of the strength in her old limbs, and betraying the fear that he might try to turn and run and her grip will be all that holds him, if he cared to notice.

But he can notice nothing but his own fear, as he waits for her anger. Something behind his calm expression and charming smile must tell of that because Jane, ever observant, lets him go and steps back. Her smile is kindly, and her hands gentle and motherly as she takes him by the elbow and draws him towards the house. "Not so well, then," she says, with a heavy sigh and understanding eyes, "None of us are well these days, though."

John swallows thickly and nods his agreement, blinking slowly, gathering himself together after the shockingly warm greeting where he expected only anger. "Do they feed you at that base of yours?" She asks, as the door swings shut behind them. "You're thinner than when I last saw you."

Glad for any reason to ignore his surroundings and focus his attention entirely on his companion, John draws an easy smile to his face and nods again, with more feeling. "Of course, it's just that I starve myself whenever I know I'm coming to see you, so that you'll feed me up."

Clucking disapprovingly through her laughter, Jane settles him at the long, low counter in the kitchen. With a last pat to his arm, she turns away and in moments there is reheated chicken and potatoes on a plate before him. Cracking open two cold beers, Jane hops up on the counter in front of him with ease despite her age, holding one out. "For the nerves," she says.

He takes the bottle and glances at the label, and cracks a genuine smile. _Good_ beer, not the piss water the Marines smuggle in or the botched attempts of the scientists at brewing their own. "You know me too well," he says, raising his bottle to her in salute before downing half of it in one long gulp. The cool slide of the liquid down his throat does settle his nerves, a little, easing the hand still clutching at his insides.

"Maybe, maybe," Jane murmurs, over the rim of her own beer. A strange look passes over her face briefly, and she adds, "I think sometimes though, that I don't know you at all, child."

John looks down and away, and focuses instead on demolishing the food before him, and Jane says nothing more, though he can hear her breathing and she doesn't move from the counter. He makes the mistake of glancing to the side once, to the long table taking up most of the floor space in the kitchen, and immediately has to turn away. At the back edge of the table, against the wall, are a few scattered pictures. He tears his gaze away before the images there sink in, and doesn't look at them again.

The silence stretches on, welcome and yet uncomfortable, until John pushes his plate away with a dull scrape. Taking that as some sort of signal, Jane speaks again, "How long are you planning on staying?"

"For," he hesitates, then forces out, "For the funeral, that's all. I don't have time for anything more."

"Oh." The plate disappears from in front of him, he can hear her washing it in the sink. "That's too bad, it would be nice to have you around for awhile."

"I have a job to do."

She sighs, and it sounds disappointed. "That, my dear, has always been the problem with you and my daughter both. Work always comes first."

"Yes, mother, as you like to remind me, we had no business having a family." Nancy's voice is smooth and composed, businesslike, as is her suit and sleek bun. She is every bit the confident business woman, even in her mother's home, with her suit jacket folded over one arm, still wearing the heels that John can clearly remember her complaining about despite the years that separate him from the memories. She does not greet John, she does not even acknowledge his presence, so John does not greet her.

"And now you don't," says Jane, just as composed. Slipping into the business woman mask as easily as her daughter, though her own removed expression is tempered by her gardening apron and bare feet, her back stooped with age and the smile-lines around her eyes.

"And now we don't," Nancy repeats, and they are both much more composed about this than John expected. Though they have had months to prepare themselves for the inevitable, he supposes, where he has had no time to remove himself from the situation. Their breakdowns and tears have probably been and gone weeks ago, while his was just yesterday in that little church by the airport. "Through no fault of our own."

John knows this argument well, if in a slightly different form. He stands and slips away into the backyard before they really get into it. Proper greetings can wait until the ladies have cooled down.

Before the door quite closes behind him, he hears Jane's tight voice, "If you think that, then I have failed as badly as you."

He knows he has failed. He has failed, as he did in the desert so long ago, and as he did in the Wraith hive that very first time. And as he has failed everytime he has lost someone in these long, long years. It's just that this time there is nothing to raise a gun against, not even the slightest way to release his burning guilt and anger.

** I'm not too fond of long author's notes, however I'd like to say here that I'm piecing together an entirely disjointed idea and attempting to grip muses that I haven't touched in months--which is no excuse for any bad writing or fail to grasp the characters properly, however, it does mean that I would very much appreciate help polishing this in the form of constructive criticism in the reviews, from readers who will each see things from a different point of view than me and each other and can point out what I let slip through so that when I do the final editing at the end of the story, everything comes together a little better.**

** That being said, bear with me while we get to the point where it's clear what exactly is happening.**


End file.
